


A Little Light Reading

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunk John, Drunk Sex, Drunk Sherlock, M/M, Penises, Rimming, Tequila, book burning, justified arson, several names for John's penis, shy little woodland creature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6891310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are reading two books for research. These books are too appalling to read while sober. They also end up too appalling to live. Too much tequila, a mental health conflagration, drunk sex and the several names for John's penis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Light Reading

**Author's Note:**

> I recently read two books that I in no way enjoyed. Details have been changed to protect the guilty. I'd apologise for the book burning, but damn (adopt faux western accent) they done needed killin'.(/accent) 
> 
> Porn was required for its medicinal benefits.
> 
> Dedicated with love to Atlin Merrick and Verity Burns. You know one of the books I'm talking about.

On a lazy Saturday afternoon, John and Sherlock sat in 221b and read. Sherlock was on the sofa, his book open on the coffee table and a notepad next to it. Something in this self-help treatise had caused a woman to take a hatchet to her neighbour’s front door. She had thrown this book – written by the neighbour – at the police with screeching violence, and was still yelling about quantum physics when she had to be tasered.

He began to read, and although it was drivel, Sherlock couldn’t find anything in it that would inspire anyone to physics-related, hatchet-wielding derangement.

Meanwhile, in his red armchair, and with every hope of improving his capacity for deductive reasoning, John opened his book. He’d found the guide that promised to unravel the secrets of deduction with a web search, and bought it online. A paperback. He wanted to be able to make notes. Perhaps surprise Sherlock with an improvement in his skills of observation. Maybe on  a case, or in the middle of some excellent sex, which made Sherlock hornier, which made John hornier, and resulted in a glorious feedback loop until culminating in roaring orgasms.

Not that John was boning up on deduction in order to improve his already fantastic sex life. That was merely a blessed side effect. Definitely that way around, yes.

Before John had even looked at the title page, he flipped back to the cover. Peered at it. Frowned. Changed the angle of his head as though that would change what he saw on the cover. Frowned harder. Thought _maybe it’ll make sense later_ and returned to the contents.

The contents page made him blink again. But he reminded himself that the book had numerous five star reviews (though he hadn’t read any of them; who had the time?) so he took up his pen for studious note-taking and began to read the next page.

Time passed.

In the red chair, the scratching of the pen on the pages became louder, faster, more frenetic, and accompanied by the occasional pained grunt.

On the sofa, the scratching of the pen on the notepad dwindled and dwindled, the falling silence punctuated by increasingly breathless huffs and sharply indrawn breaths, until eventually Sherlock rose, and collected a glass and a bottle of tequila gifted to them by a grateful client who did not understand their tastes at all.

Sherlock sat heavily, poured half a glass of tequila, drank a mouthful at a gulp and returned to his book.

John, aggravated to the point that the clacking of glass on the coffee table set his teeth on edge, looked up.

“What’s that?” he demanded.

Sherlock waved his hand vaguely. “Nothing.  A mental aid.”

“A mental aid,” repeated John, in disbelieving deadpan.

“Yes,” said Sherlock grimly, “To being in my own splendour.”

John blinked at him. “That’s narcissistic. Even for you.”

Sherlock shook his head and held up the book, stabbing at a passage as though his finger was a sword of righteousness, and the passage was Evil Incarnate. “No. That’s what it says here. ‘Be in your own splendour.’ I thought I’d try wallowing in my splendour to see if it helps. It doesn’t.” Sherlock took another gulp of tequila, topped up the glass and downed another mouthful. “Th’ tequila does.”

He smacked the book back down onto the coffee table, turned another page, made a noise as though he’d been speared in the hand with a knitting needle, and rapidly turned four more pages.

John looked back at his own book. He carried it to the coffee table, topped up Sherlock’s glass, tossed the tequila down in a greedy gulp, then looked again at his book.

“Mmm,” he agreed. “Does.”

Sherlock peered up at him as though he was having trouble getting John into focus. “A book on deductive reasoning,” Sherlock noted. “What is it teaching you?”

“Still on About the Author,” John admitted. Still standing, he stared at the second page and scribbled a circle in the middle of a paragraph. Then three more circles a paragraph below.

Sherlock sat bolt upright in his chair to look at the page in question, like a meerkat trying to see over a hedge. “What are you doing?”

“Proofreading,” said John grumpily. “Random capitalisation, book titles with no capitals at all, American spelling mixed with the British, incomplete sentences, random apostrophes where they don’t belong, and missing where they do, and an inexplicable font change.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he looked at all the marks on the page. “The errors must be egregious indeed, if you’ve noticed them.”

“Dick,” said John, though without heat. “Budge up.” He dropped onto the sofa beside Sherlock, took another hit of tequila, turned finally to the first chapter and kind of howled, “Holy Jesus, that is not even a word. It is not a fucking word. Is it? Is it?” He shoved the page under Sherlock’s nose. “Is that a word?”

“No, it is not,” said Sherlock sternly.

“No it is fucking not,” said John, and took another swig of tequila.

Sherlock confiscated the glass and the bottle and poured himself a triple shot. He shoved his book at John. “Tell me what you think of that?”

John studied the passage. He read it twice. He said. “I think this person has a fundamental misunderstanding about quantum physics. I know fuck-all about quantum physics and I know that’s bollocks.”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, and swallowed his triple shot. He slammed the glass down harder than he’d intended and flipped forward a few more pages. “What about this?”

“Can a national scientific institute sue for being quoted out of context with a blatant disregard for actual science?”

“One can only hope.” He shoved the book violently away and looked at the book John held. “John,” he said, puzzled and also urgent. “John. John.”

“I know,” said John. “Spelling error on the cover. Should have been a clue. But I was still hopeful then. That was in another lifetime.” He took another drink, then leafed through several pages, only to wince at a stretched image that was too dark to discern anything except the fact that it did not in any way demonstrate the point the author was trying to make. Two more pages on and John flinched. Next page and he howled again, “Oh my fucking god! Was spellcheck broken? Did they just type random letters? What the fuck is going on with the ragged bullet points? _Why are all the wrong words capitalised? This isn’t Winnie the Fucking Pooh!!”_

Sherlock wrenched the book out of John’s hands before he did himself an injury. John gulped more tequila. Sherlock, who had seen an entire page demonstrating views on businesswomen that might have been considered sexist in the 50s, snatched the glass from John and emptied it.

“We need to end this madness now,” said Sherlock seriously, as though lives depended on it. “Do you have a lighter?”

“Nooooooo,” said John plaintively, because he understood the urgency.

Sherlock blinked very hard. In slow motion. He did it again.

“I know!” he said, having an epiphany, “The fireplace!”

He wobbled to his feet, bent for his book and nearly fell over. John steadied him and rose to prop Sherlock up. They managed to each seize their own horrifying tome and Sherlock clutched the tequila bottle by the neck.

Clutching each other, they staggered to the fireplace. Each drunkenly scrunched up a few pages (they were very drunk, but they knew how to start fires, and blessed god of printers and bibliophiles, did these books need burning) and dropped the books onto the grate. Sherlock managed to get the matches but had trouble getting the pages to catch alight properly.

John, ever the man of practical action, shook tequila all over the books. But he was drunk. He got splashy. He had tequila on his shirt, his trouser, Sherlock’s shirt and trousers.

“No. Setting. Yourself. On. Fire,” he said, wagging a finger at Sherlock, because it was one of the House Rules after that whole unfortunate thing with the ping pong balls, polyester tie and the stain remover.

Sherlock obligingly removed shirt and trousers. And vest and pants. He tugged on John’s clothes until he, too, had removed all the potentially flammable, tequila-soaked outerwear. And underwear.

Finally, John managed to get a nice flame to curl from a fanned-out page and was very content to see that cover smoking until the error was covered in soot. Then he paused.

“We are burning books,” he observed solemnly. “That’s bad. That’s a bad thing. Isn’t it a bad thing?”

Sherlock turned his face from the fire (John though the way the flames reflected dancingly in Sherlock’s pretty, pretty eyes was very…. Pretty). His (pretty, dancing) eyes were wide with horror and despair as he looked into John’s.

“It says that crop circles are made by aliens and have no terrestrial explanation at all. **_Not a one_**. And that pyramids _channel love from angels_.”

John shook more tequila over the flames and added some kindling to make sure it really took flame. Then, with a deeper frown, he took an opened and barely eaten waxed paper packet of pumpernickel bread that had been pitched at the fireplace only yesterday in a paroxysm of revulsion, and threw _that_ on the fire as well.

A spark flew towards them. John snatched the ember out of the air before it could land on Sherlock’s crotch. Then he patted Sherlock’s flaccid penis. “S’okay, Sherlock. I won’t let your dick catch fire.”

“Thank you, John.”

“You are welcome Sherlock.”

John nodded. He took a swig of tequila straight from the bottle. Sherlock took the bottle and downed another gulp.

“Me too,” he said woozily.

“Wha’?”

“I will not let your penis catch on fire. I like your penis. I like all the bushy…” Sherlock gestured all around John’s pubic hair. “I like it there, in its bush. Like a little forest animal.”

John found this description… flattering. He smiled. He took the end of his flaccid penis between forefinger and thumb and waggled it a bit.

“Don’t be shyyyyyyy,” he told it.

Sherlock kind of toppled forward, stopping just short of collapsing face-first into John’s lap, and peered at John’s shy little forest creature.

“It’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“Hmm. Cute. Like a little alien. It’s looking at me.” Sherlock leaned closer and prodded John’s soft cock with his finger. “Hellooooo John’s penis.” He squinted at it closely with one investigative eye.

John giggled. He waggled his dick at Sherlock. “Helloooooo Sherlock.”

“You look like a little alien,” Sherlock addressed John’s penis, “With a little eye. Or a mouth.”

John, still giggling, managed to use his fingers to make his slit move like talking lips. He said, with a squeaky alien voice, “Helloooo human Sherlock. You’re very handsome.”

Sherlock stroked top of John’s penis with his forefinger, like he was patting a friendly little kitten. John’s penis began to show interest.

“What’s your name, little penis alien?”

John snorted a giggle.

Sherlock looked him in his eye. His actual eye, not his penis eye. “We should call it a name.”

“It _has_ a name,” John confessed, sounding smug.

“What name?”

“Little Watson,” said John, and snorted with laughter.

Sherlock bent low and whispered. “Hello Little Watson. You look like… who’s that guy? Bald. Looks like a big fat baby?”

“Lex Luthor?”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Smoked cigars. Wanted to fight people on beaches.”

“Winston Churchill?”

“Yes! Winston Churchill!”

“My dick looks like Winston Churchill?” John considered this. Shrugged. “Okay.” He leaned forward to peer at Sherlock’s crotch. “Yours looks like…” he considered some more. “Like it wants to be licked.”

Sherlock’s penis was indeed reaching upwards, as though feeling neglected and in want of some of the approval and admiration currently being lavished on John’s Little Watson.

“It does,” said Sherlock. He moved so he could spread his legs and he and John both looked down at his cock stretching up like a flower towards the sun.

John leaned down. “Hello Sherlock’s dick,” he said, “You’re lovely.”

Sherlock’s shoulders moved in a slight, coy shrug, shy at the compliment. John bussed the crown of the lovely, rosy stamen with a big wet kiss. Then he beamed up at Sherlock and puckered to bestow a similar kiss on the petals of Sherlock’s lips.

John then leaned back and spread his thighs to look at newly named Winston, who remained vaguely interested but still nestled in the bush. He sighed. Sherlock patted Winston again. They both looked at John’s plump but not hardening penis and sighed a little at what might have been.

Then John had a brilliant idea. “Hands and knees!” he declared and Sherlock without question turned to his hands and knees on the carpet and presented his bum.

“But John,”  Sherlock protested weakly a moment later, as John shuffled up behind him on his knees and proceeded to press big puckered kisses all over Sherlock’s pearly pale bum (pinkened slightly by the firelight) and to caress the muscles and to part that bounty in order to plant more kisses.

“S’okay,” John patted Sherlock’s bum and, swaying a little, picked up the tequila and his vest, “Got it covered. Imma doctor. I know stuff. C’n bathe it in alcohol.” Then he giggled and poured a generous dash of tequila between Sherlock’s buttcheeks. He swabbed with the vest, poured more tequila, another swab, then more tequila.

He threw away the vest and then, with a look Sherlock might have best described as “yeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!”had he been able to see it, John buried his face in Sherlock’s fine back end and started licking. Then sucking and kissing and licking some more.

Sherlock began panting and moaning, then wriggling his hips, tilting them, pushing his hole against John’s mouth, and John happily grabbed Sherlock’s hips and poked his tongue in there. The noises he was making – like Cookie Monster with a particularly delicious treat – were… ridiculous, really, but they were both so turned on it was hard to tell the difference between grunting, moaning cartoon noises and ‘holy fuck, gimme MORE!’

Eventually, John came up for air, took a gulp of oxygen, stuck his tongue in one more time and wriggled it while Sherlock pushed rhythmically back and moaned lavishly. Then John rose to his knees again and shuffled forward.

He really wanted to push Winston into the lovely hot little place presented to him for the purpose, but Winston, bless him, was still more sleep-plump than alert. John made a bit of an attempt to fold his dick into that delicious little hole, but that didn’t work. Still, Winston felt very very happy and very very nice all snugged up in Sherlock’s wet tequila crack, so John humped him for a while.

“S’good baby? S’good?” he asked, eyes closed, hanging onto Sherlock’s hips, humping away like it was what he was born for.

Sherlock was on his elbows now, pulling at his cock with one hand while he continued to meet John’s humping with little backward thrusts of his own. “Mmmm, mmmm,” he agreed, “Rub it there, rub it, oh John, John, John….”

And Sherlock came all over his hands and the hearthrug with a breathy squeak and a sigh. Then he slithered to his belly on the sticky rug.

John knelt where he was, with Sherlock’s legs spread either side of John’s knees and his bum just there. Right _there_. He patted Sherlock’s arse, which looked, John thought, like… like… like Sherlock’s perfect and wonderful bum. A work of art. A wonder of the world. A treasure to be gazed upon and kissed and fondled at every opportunity. So John patted it some more, because it was deserving of affection. Plus, if he patted it a little harder, it wobbled a bit, and that was brain-bendingly, mesmerisingly fantastic.

With a sudden lurch, Sherlock came back to life. He twisted around to face John, placed his hand in the centre of John’s chest and pushed lightly. John, grinning like a loon, toppled slowly onto his back and spread his legs wide, so that Sherlock could semi-collapse into his crotch. Face first and mouth open, Sherlock’s lips sought Winston, or Little Watson, or whatever his name was now, the cute little alien peen creature, and slurped him in.

John’s penis was, Sherlock thought, sweet and intoxicating. Then he realised that was the tequila John had been humping into. Then he thought John’s penis was nice when it was a bit soft like this. He could get it all in his whole mouth at once, and then feel the velvety skin thicken and get hotter against his tongue and palate and cheeks.

Sherlock sucked soft-hard and pulled away slowly until John’s dick, getting harder now, popped out from between his lips with an adorable little smacking sound.

“Hello Little Watson,” Sherlock whispered lovingly to the darling thing, “Winston. A leader of genitals. A prince among cocks. Captain Peen. Hellooooo.”

“Helloooo,” whispered John faintly in a high pitched voice, though his eyes were closed and his head thrown back so that he spoke to the ceiling in the wee voice of Little Watson, “HelloooooooOH!”

For Sherlock had sucked Captain Peen back into his hot mouth and was busy sucking all the tequila off it even when there wasn’t any more tequila to be sucked.

John came with a sudden jerk of his hips, a filthy groan and then a giggle.

Sherlock, well pleased with the result, kissed the crown of the not-so-shy woodland creature. Lying between John’s legs, he pillowed his cheek on John’s belly, with John’s soft, sticky Winston pressed against his sternum. John’s fingers were buried in Sherlock’s hair, flexing against his scalp. John giggled periodically, happy as a clam.

It was, they both thought, the best of all possible worlds.

John turned his face towards the dying light of their fire.

“Are they dead?” asked Sherlock, with a hint of dread.

“Yes,” John assured him. “Dead, dead, dead.”

“Good,” sighed Sherlock, as though they had this day vanquished pure evil.

And then they fell asleep.

They woke up to a mound of charred paper in the grate, carpet burns on their knees, the feeling that a dozen alley cats were yowling in their heads and had used the rest of their bodies as litter trays, and the sure and certain knowledge that they would never drink tequila again.

There were other legacies. For the next month, there wasn’t a single error in any of John’s blog posts, and Sherlock took a brief interest in what the solar system actually did, because it obviously didn’t radiate alien fucking _love auras_.

And they bought a half dozen floor cushions, the better to take advantage of the recently cleaned rug in front of the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> [The pumpernickel reference comes from here. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4890460/chapters/15702913)


End file.
